Belial

It is what it is, and we’ve got to dowhat we’ve got to do. Heaven, we were taughtto chant, is a kingdom where God’s will rulesand we want it done here too. Nice to say so,though who believes so? Since we ourselvesare hell, shouldn’t we to our own selves be trueand celebrate our nature in natureby roaring through neighborhoods of the timidon loud motorcycles, arms drooping upwardtoward heaven, idling in ominous cacklebefore churches, perhaps drowning a sermonthat justifies the flaying of Hypatiaor describes heaven as Las Vegas wroughtall in glaring gold? Once, I, you, all of us,in fact, screamed so loud for ice creamin the backseat riding home from church,our wish was granted, yet weren’t we whippedfor dripping absolute goodnesson our best clothes and denied our cherished hourto watch gray cowboys kill gray Indianson a gray screen? So much for your free grace.

For heaven is right here, my friend,and right over there, my friend, if onlywe could see it. But no—to shift just that jotwould be to batter through adamantinewalls of fear only to diffuse in a chaosof endless nothing. Like the famous slow-boiled frog, only by increments can wefinally frolic in the seething miseryof this life. But better yet, let us just chant it,for is it not thoughtless prating that weavesthe threads of habit? Even better, let usbe misery itself, thundering city streetsin the name of charity, like furious angels,fulfilling a brute will ordained for us.